A Monster's Sentimentality
by nero-nevermind
Summary: Between a combination of strange circumstances and a dangerous fascination on both ends, Dr. Jonathan Crane and Miss Léa Gaillard find themselves sharing each other's company with increasing frequency. This proves to have a number of consequences - some quite dire. Rating will change with later chapters.
1. Crane - 001

CRANE 001

* * *

By the time the dinner party drags slowly on into its third hour – it's third long and excruciating hour – you are well acquainted with regret. It's an odd feeling. Regret and you are not close by any means; you rarely doubt your own decisions enough to debate their outcome with anything beyond a clinical appraisal. Regret is another and all-together foreign matter _entirely._

But you think you understand it now. Three hours is a long time to suffer _anything_, let alone the droning conversation of fools. You purposefully scrape your spoon along the bottom of your ramekin, the sound sharp and discordant. It's as much to salvage one last bite of crème brûlée as it is to drown out the chatter of Falcone with one of his – as far as you can tell – favored underlings.

The underling, one Marcel Gaillard, keeps a fine house and prepares an even finer diner. You aren't so bitter as to deny that you like the rich atmosphere of his classic décor or that he is a better conversationalist than the abhorrent man who signs his blood-money checks, but this means nothing in the grand scheme of things. Your deal with Falcone has been ironed out to the last explicit detail and every avenue of filler conversation has been exhausted - and all within the first forty minutes of this ultimately pointless charade.

Your name is Jonathan Crane. You are not a mobster, and you have no inclinations towards that kind of life. You have a PHD in psychology; you are an ex-professor; you are the administrator at Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. Their stories do not amuse you. They do not afford you even a fleeting sense of morbid curiosity.

Yet you suffer your boredom well regardless of your true opinion, quiet beyond your polite disinterest. This is necessary, you remind yourself, setting your spoon down on the table before stealthily checking your watch. These men are incapable of doing anything without a gratuitous show of power and a lot of long winded verbal bravado. You comfort yourself with the knowledge that it will – hopefully – be over soon.

A slight rap at the archway that leads from the dining to the parlor jars the attention of all at the table, yourself included. You expect another pompous looking man in a suit, but find only a tall and gangly boy there, slimmed further by the sharp lines of a pristine school uniform. Shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, he looks vaguely uncomfortable at being the sudden center of attention.

"What is it, boy?" You recognize the voice of your host by the slight flair of his distant French accent. The words, you think, would sound flippant without the tone of his voice. There's an odd note of kindness in Gaillard's tone.

A smile curls at the corners of the boy's mouth now, softening a bit of that obvious worry even as he still shuffles from foot to foot "She got the part." His voice is quiet, but there's an undercurrent of excitement to the words, to the brightness of his eyes.

From the edges of your vision you catch the smile mirrored in Marcel's own face, and you realize with a sudden clarity that this boy in the archway must be you host's son. They have the same neat shock of blonde hair, the same deep blue eyes, the same crooked nose. "Fantastic," Gaillard says, and there's no bluff or show to him now. The honesty of his excitement is surreal in the wake of his earlier conversation regarding the torture of an errant member of Falcone's family. "Where is she?"

"Putting up her coat," the boy answers, crossing his arms over his bird chest as he leans against the frame of the archway.

Gaillard stands from his chair, murmuring some words of excuse to Falcone who allows him leave with a begrudging nod of his head. You watch the tall Frenchman make his way to the archway with more interest than you find in the conversation that warms to life again in his absence, idly resting your chin in your palm.

The man pauses in the archway to address his son with words you can't hope to hear. His hands move animatedly as he speaks, and without the focus of the crowd, the boy softens, the tenseness of his posture slipping to something more casual. The two laugh, shoulders shaking, and you find yourself surprised at their easy camaraderie.

"It isn't very common, that sort of closeness in our line of work," the man to your right remarks, as if reading your mind. You turn your head to meet his gaze.

"Excuse me?"

He nods first at you, and then at your host and his son. "They say the mob's all about family, but that isn't really the case a lot of the time. It's about money first and loyalties second. Breaks more bonds than it builds."

"It's difficult to maintain a family with any job that demands heavy time investment," you point out, tone thick with disinterest.

"Do you have a family, Dr. Crane?" He asks, genuine curiosity evident in his voice. You realize that you don't know his name.

The answer you give him is noncommittal. "My job demands heavy time investment."

There's a sudden sound of clapping, and you look up to see Gaillard with his back to the dining room, arms outstretched towards a girl who approaches through the parlor.

She's slight, a stick-figure of a girl in a uniform that matches what you guess to be her elder brother's own. A mess of sweeping red-gold curls is pinned haphazardly behind her head, and even from this distance you can make out a smattering of freckles across the pale bridge of her nose.

But more than any of that, you notice the hesitance with which she approaches her father. There's a furrowing to her brow, a pursing of her lips. She is distinctly uncomfortable. At first you think she might be nervous – like her brother, perhaps. But as she draws closer, you realize it is something else:

Distaste.

Her father takes her by her shoulders and bends to press a kiss to her forehead. She goes rigid beneath the grasp of his hands, shoulders squared. At her sides, her fingers ball into tight little fists, knuckles bone-white.

She's very pretty, you think, this little girl with her tip-tilted button nose and tight-pressed lips; pretty in that awkward early-spring way that teenage girls often are.

"Who's that?" You ask, tone practiced nonchalance.

"My sister."

You turn to address the man beside you seriously for the first time. He's not the spitting image of his father like his younger brother is, but you can see quite a bit of Marcel Gaillard in him now that you're looking for it.

"I wasn't aware you were related." You pause, and then clarify: "To Mr. Gaillard."

The man beside you shifts in his seat, running a hand through his light-brown hair. If you had to guess, you'd place him as a few years younger than yourself at most – probably in his late twenties. "Shit," he says, offering you an apologetic smile. "Skipped out on that whole introduction thing, I guess. Name's Marc; Gaillard's my father, and I'm his eldest. James and Léa are my siblings."

You study the pair of Gaillard's younger children for a moment. James – he can't be more than seventeen, you think – pulls his younger sister into a hug, and you watch a bit of that tension bleed from the girl's face. "They are," you remark, "Considerably younger than you."

"Half-siblings," Marc corrects himself, maintaining the same sheepish smile. "By a different mother. James is a junior in high school; he'll be seventeen in the spring. Léa will be fifteen in two weeks."

"And you?" You cast him a sidelong glance from the corner of your eye.

"Twenty-nine," Marc says. Four years younger than yourself, you note internally, pleased with your earlier guess.

"Your place at this table suggests that you share the same occupation as your father." You adjust your glasses, turning your head to address him properly. "What specifics does that entail, exactly?"

Marc fiddles with his tie absently, eyebrows raised at the directness of your question. "My father started work as a hit-man for Falcone, but the two became an odd pair of..." He pauses, as if struggling for the right word. "Friends," he says, finally, but you have the feeling he's settled for lack of a better term. "He worked his way through the list and eventually became Falcone's consigliere when I was in my early twenties. From a child, he'd trained me as his replacement."

"A hitman, then?" You ask, though there's no real curiosity to the question.

"And a better shot than my father," he adds, oblivious to your apathy. There's a note of pride to his voice.

Marc does not fit the typical profile of a hitman. He's slender, his build similar to your own, face handsome in a boyish sort of way. His speak-easy cavalier nature runs counter-current to the typical surly attitude of hired muscle. He is, you think, almost _cheerful. _

"And your siblings?"

Some of that good humor leaves Marc's face at the casual inquiry, his brows furrowing. "No," he says quickly, "They're both too young, and beyond that my father has little desire to involve them when they do come of age."

"You seem displeased," you remark drly. His sudden change of demeanor has been the only real thing of interest this entire evening. "Do you think he should involve them? Are you jealous that he's hesitant to?"

Marc blinks once – twice – as he considers you, surprise etched deep into his features. "What?" He says, and then he shakes his head, blinking rapidly. "No, no – no it isn't anything like that. My mother was someone involved with the Falcone family; I was – I was expected to follow in my father's foot steps from a young age and I was eager to do so. I have no doubt that my father would have let me do something else if I'd pursued it, but I didn't."

He turns from you to look back at his siblings, and you follow his gaze. James has stolen the clip that held Léa's hair in place, holding it easily just beyond her reach. She looks agitated, cheeks flushed pink. Their father is distracted, ear pressed to his phone.

"My mother died when I was young – well." From the corner of your eye, you catch him frowning. "She was murdered by a rival of my father, actually, when I was seven. Dad expected it to ruin me for the job, but it only solidified my resolve."

He takes a sip from his wine glass, turning back to you as if to assess your interest. You meet his gaze with a quirked eyebrow, chin still in hand. It's all he needs. "When I was eleven, dad got involved with someone else. It was a woman he met at a restaurant by chance – a teacher. She didn't know who he was, and he didn't tell her. She was a good woman," he says, frown deepening. "Not mob family material. Dad kept his shit on the down low, and when I was twelve he'd gotten her knocked up with James."

"She still didn't know?" You prompt him, fascinated now despite yourself.

"No," he shakes his head. "Dad had her rightly pegged as the sort who couldn't handle that kind of thing, and at the time he was just a hitguy without any real name for himself, so it was easy to pretend to be something he wasn't. He kept her plied with some fake story about working for the government as some undercover guy sworn to secrecy. It explained his long absences and fancy suits well enough, and she bought it because she had no reason not to."

When he goes to take another drink, you let your gaze drift back to Marcel Gaillard. His salt and pepper hair is elegantly styled, his suit a perfect fit. Even now – even in his fifties – he cuts a flattering figure. It's easy to see where he might have charmed an otherwise intellligent woman into an elaborate web of lies.

"Dad kept her and James seperate from me, from the life. I didn't even know about them for some time, actually – not till I was around James' age, anyway. Two years later, Léa comes along too, and by that point he'd married their mother."

"Still unaware?"

Marc smiles, but there's no real humor to it. "Yeah, she still didn't know. And she didn't, not till Léa was two and dad was asked to become Falcone's consigliere. It was then that dad decided to come clean with everyone. With me – and with her."

"I suspect that went poorly." It's a struggle to keep the amusement from your voice as you eye the young Léa, imagining her motherr – in your mind, a spitting image of her lovely daughter – wringing her hands in betrayed fury at the revelation.

"You can't even imagine," Marc breathes, shaking his head. "The fallout was terrible. Their mother demanded a night to think, and when my father returned to their shared apartment the next morning, she'd taken the children and fled."

You allow yourself a smile. "But not for long."

"No." Marc pinches the bridge of his nose. "No, of course not. She was a teacher with two small children, unable to access much of the fortune my father had amassed. My father was a soon-to-be consigliere. To her credit, she did make it out of Gotham, but it took only days to find her again."

"Did he have her killed?"

Marc's expression twists into something like disgust, but you're unsure if it's at your question or at the idea behind it. "No, no – my father was in love with her, and she was the mother of his children. He brought her back and made a deal – that she allow him to pay for her life and the lives of his children under the promise that he would remove himself from their life entirely."

"Love seems an unlikely and dangerous thing in your line of work," you comment, eyebrows raised.

"Perhaps," he shrugs, playing at apathy, but there's nothing nonchalant about it. Rather, you can see a tenseness in the line of his shoulders. His voice when he continues his story is significantly quieter. "She accepted the deal and for two years knew nothing of want – though it wasn't without some heavy _convincing_. She was a morally upright woman and the idea of taking blood money for her children was disgusting to her, but my father didn't really give her a choice. I'm sure there was coercion involved, plenty of 'if you don't do this, we will make you do it anyway' sort of shit. My father didn't really talk about it."

"Let me guess," you say, watching as James skitters off through the parlor with his sister in tow. "This saintly woman is not with us today."

Marc grimaces. "When James was four, and Léa two, Valerie – their mother – was carjacked by some petty criminal. The circumstances aren't really known, but she was shot, the car abandoned with James and Léa in the back seat. It was in a fairly well-to-do neighborhood, so they weren't there for long before some passerby noticed the car and the screaming hysterics of children inside."

"How unfortunate." You murmur softly, voice devoid of any real sympathy. If Marc notices, he doesn't let on. His cheeks are warm now, and you wonder how much wine he's had, wonder if the looseness of his tongue has any root in its copious consumption.

"Yeah, well.. yeah." His fingers work at the rim of his wine glass idly, eyes unfocused. His father still lurks in the archway, preoccupied with his phone. You study the posture of the man and wonder if he still misses his estranged-now-dead wife.

"Anyway," Marc says, folding his napkin atop his picked-clean plate. "Dad took in James and Léa because Valerie didn't have any proper family to speak of. They were both too young to really know her or remember her, but he decided to try and keep as true to her memory as he could by keeping them out of the business."

"Do they know about it?"

"Of course they do." The brown-haired man sighs through his nose. "He's a consigliere; he's infamous. His name is mentioned in the same circles as Falcone, so he saw no good in keeping secrets."

"And why does this displease you?"

Marc looks momentarily confused. "What?"

You take your glasses from your face and polish them with your napkin. "Earlier," you remind him, "You seemed perturbed by the idea of their involvement. I'd pegged it as jealousy. If it isn't jealousy, then...?"

"Oh," he says, understanding drawning on him finally as his earlier smile flickers to life again. "Oh – no, no, no it isn't jealousy. It isn't that at all. It's more that – well, the problem's two fold, really. James has been showing interest in joining the business, which wouldn't be bad per se, but he isn't really cut out for it. It's one of those things you can pick out at a young age, and he's – too soft?" Marc's newly-refound smile falters again. "Maybe not soft but – it just isn't something that'd suit him, and besides that, Dad – and me, too – we just don't want to see him involved in the business. He's a good kid, too good for this life. Smart. He could do something proper, make good money doing something beyond death and drugs and whores."

You try your luck. "And your sister?"

Marc runs his fingers along his mouth, the corners of it pulling further downward. "Léa is – well, she's her mother in minature. Kind-hearted, stubborn. An idealist. This life is terrible for her, and she only grows more sullen and agitated the older she gets. Dad loves her fiercely; she probably reminds him a lot of Valerie and the life he could have had if he'd not made the choices he did as a kid. But even as he tries to hold onto her, she pushes him away. I think she resents him. Loves him," he adds quickly, "But resents him. It doesn't help that she's a kid, that she's going through that stage where most kids hate their parents, but their morality is so... different?"

"But she gets on well enough with James," you say, more of a statement than a question. You'd managed to discern that much. "What about with you?"

There's that hint of a smile again. "We get along fine. I'm closer to her than to James, and she's closer to me than to Dad."

"But you follow eagerly in the footsteps of your father. Why are you exempt from her displeasure?"

Marc leans forward, propping his elbows on the table, eyes closing. "I think she thinks that I was pushed into the work as a kid. Brainwashed, or something. She seems more willing to excuse it. Dad was – he wasn't – he wasn't born to a life of crime. Not like me."

"Is there truth to that?" You fix him with a pointed stare. "Were you pushed into it?"

"No," he admits. "I said earlier I've always been taken with the work. I was excited at the prospect, even as a kid."

"And have you told her that?"

He shifts in his seat, distinctly uncomfortable. "She knows that I enjoy my job, but still thinks it's the result of manipulation."

"She's lying to herself," you say, "To protect her image of you." You suspect this is something he already knows. You suspect this is something _she _knows, herself.

Marc doesn't say anything, and the guilt evident in his posture intrigues you. It's rare to meet a career killer with any sort of remorse – especially when it's tied to something so vague as a faint familial link to a _child_.

"It isn't something I can change," he says, finally, and you nod.

"No," you agree. "It isn't."

You think he takes your words as a comfort given the way he seems to relax, though you don't mean them that way. You don't actually mean them in any way beyond the raw honesty of them. He can't change. They never do. Sentimentality is not enough to still the monster in him; it is only enough to blur the lines some.

You fold your own napkin and set it beside your plate, fixing him with a faint, polite smile that holds no real warmth as you return your glasses to your face. "Well, then, Mr. Gaillard," you address him by name for the first time as you glance down at your watch. "I did enjoy our conversation; it was, surprisingly, the highlight of the evening." It's not a lie; not really. That isn't to say that there aren't things you would rather have been doing, of course, but as far as the dinner is concerned, Marc Gaillard has proven to be a welcome distraction, a tiny slice of anomaly in Gotham's vicious if predictable mob drama.

Marc stands as you do, offering you his hand. You take it, continuously taken aback by his show of good manners. His handshake is strong, firm, his skin warm. You suspect that, like you, he is more powerful than his build suggests. "Likewise," he says, and then, almost apologetically: "Sorry about – just – you know. Talking forever." A pause. "For dominating the conversation."

The smile you give him is full of teeth. "I am a psychiatrist, Mr. Gaillard. It's my job to give you the illusion that you have." He blinks at you, and you drop his hand. "Please give my regards to your father and Mr. Falcone. I will be in touch regarding any further specifics of our deal."

Without another word, you take your leave of the dinner table. You half-expect Falcone to call after you, but Marcel Gaillard has reclaimed his position beside the crime boss and seems to be doing a fine job with a distraction. Neither of them notice your retreat.

The thick oriental rug in the parlor muffles the sound of your foot steps until you reach the foyer. There, they click sharply on the tile, the sound echoing off the wide, high ceilings as you make your way towards the side closet to retrieve your coat.

It is November, the temperature outside a frigid nineteen degrees some three hours ago. You have no illusions that it will be any warmer, and you reach into your deep pockets to search for your gloves.

"Here," comes a quiet voice behind you as your hands fail to find your gloves. "They fell out when you were putting on your jacket."

You turn – and then look down – into the upturned face of Léa Gaillard. She holds out your gloves to you in one hand, a trio of multi-colored scarves tucked over her spare arm. Her expression is tightly maintained and carefully unreadable, and her eyes burn into yours.

You smile, and her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly in response. "Thank you, Miss Gaillard," you say, voice mock-pleasant, and her eyes narrow further. She's perceptive for a child, her pink lips thinning as she purses them.

You can tell she aches to say something cutting, caught between indignation and reservation. She pulls the scarves closer to herself as you pluck your gloves from her loose fingers, eyes darting from your own eyes to your fingers as you tug them on. Léa Gaillard, you think, will be stunning when she is older.

It takes her until you've finished with your gloves to settle on something. "You're welcome," she says, finally, lips moving oddly around the words as if she regrets the politeness of them already.

Your own smile grows wider with her apparent self-loathing. "Consider sticking to your guns next time, Miss Gaillard," you suggest, and pat her cheek patronizingly. She ducks almost violently away from your hand, a flurry of strawberry blonde curls and silk scarves.

"Don't _touch_ me." She hisses like a trodden snake, and you smirk at her.

"You lack your brother's charm," you observe, idly, turning instead toward the door. She says nothing, does nothing as you open it. A cold winter wind rushes in to greet you, and you turn your head to meet her equally cold gaze. "But it suits you. Don't lose your fire, girl."

Her expression wavers from steely-eyed agitation to confusion, but you only smile, disappearing into the welcome chill of the night.


	2. Gaillard - 002

GAILLARD 002

* * *

"Don't wander far, Léa," Marc warns you, his solemn expression almost foreign. He looks old, today, older than his years would suggest – there's a tiredness to his eyes, to the faint, frowning wrinkles there, and you ache for him, for the way his lips tug downwards into a frown. "We shouldn't be long."

He shuts the door to your father's room behind him, the sound of the latch clicking into place, and you are left alone in the wide, dirty-white halls of the asylum, You realize your legs are trembling, and you take a few unsteady steps towards the elevator in an effort to shake it off. It works surprisingly well; with each stride, you feel a little less out-of-sorts. It's easier to concentrate on the lift and drop of your feet than it is on your father's outrageous situation.

Without thinking, you press the 'down' button on the elevator. It's metallic doors slide open silently, suggesting that no one has used it since you and Marc had ridden it a half-hour prior. Strange, you think. The whole floor seems quiet, devoid of any real activity.

You drift into the elevator and press the button for the ground floor. It's descent is smooth, but the quick ride is momentarily disorienting. You pause for a moment to collect yourself before wandering out into yet another broad hallway you remember leading up to the entrance of the hospital.

This hallway is considerably more populated. Nurses, doctors – they all wear suits or white coats, bustling around you with little more than the occasional curious glance. Civilians in Arkham are uncommon, but you aren't a civilian. Not really.

You wander into what passes as a waiting room and fall into a seat, elbows on your knees, hands clinging to your shoulders. The room is pristine, the magazines on the table beside you virtually untouched and stacked atop one another in a fashion that suggests an almost OCD level of attention. They're dated from what seems to be a year ago. You puzzle at them without touching, gaze darting about the vacant room. The criminally insane, you think, must not often get visitors. It was difficult enough for Marc to motivate you to visit your father in the first place, and while you suspect your father probably suffers a number of personality disorders, you know he is not actually insane.

Still, you'd never expected the deal Falcone had arranged with Arkham's administrator would find your father as it's second beneficiary. Childishly, you'd never assumed your father would be _caught_, though you'd certainly and spitefully wished for it more than a few times.

In the end, of course, Marcel hadn't even really been properly 'caught'. It had been your brother, Marc, who had slipped up in a botched assassination case – but your father had taken the blame and the fall for him when the cops had come sniffing. He'd been saved prison time by a pair of slashed wrists and the good word of Arkham's own administrator. Your father, the doctor had testified in court, was a danger to himself and others in a prison setting. His mental state was fast declining and he needed to be somewhere where he could be treated for his deficiencies.

You'd have been touched by your father's generosity if it hadn't been the obvious choice. Your brother could not operate as a hitman in a mental institution. Your father, however, could advise Falcone from it just fine, swaddled up in his white hospital gown and tucked tight into the plush bed his own private room afforded him.

Still, the sight of his wrists had made you queasy with an empathy you couldn't deny. Your hands found your own wrists, rubbing idly through your long sleeves at the scarred skin there.

A buzzing sound – the same noise that had signaled you and your brother's admittance into the heavily fortified hospital – jars you from your distraction. Lifting your gaze from your hands, you fix it instead on the door, fascinated by the low shrill of metal sliding over metal. Slowly, the doors open, creaking and heavy on their mechanical hinges, allowing entrance for two men.

You recognize Falcone immediately. Short and thick in his suit, his face is pinched in an expression of distaste that your own immediately mirrors. You cannot not stand him, and avoid him as fastidiously as one might the plague. He has been a point of contention between yourself and James as of late; James is fascinated with the man, with his stories. You fear you are losing him more and more every day.

The second man – his companion – seems familiar in some way. He is tall and almost slender in a way that reminds you of Marc, his long, brown hair curling gently at the nape of his neck. Despite the elegant mess of his locks, he seems quite professional. His suit is well cut, his glasses neat; from here, you can make out the peek of a sweater beneath his jacket.

Falcone turns to address him, obviously agitated. The man looks on, his expression one of very obvious boredom, hands working to pull the soft leather gloves from his long fingers.

Gloves.

Recognition dawns suddenly, and you place the man as the one in your foyer some three months back. Falcone. Arkham. That _deal_. You frown, studying him. Is this man the administrator?

He's older than you, of course, but he's young, younger than you would expect the administrator of an insane asylum to be. Early-thirties, maybe – but maybe older? It's hard to tell because his face is free of wrinkles, of lines, of any mark of discomposure that might give away his age. He's all high-cheekbones and full lips and wild, boyish hair.

He's attractive, you realize, gut twisting. It's the second time you've observed this. You'd thought the same when you'd bent to retrieve his gloves all those many nights ago. It had been, ultimately, what kept the real vehemence from your choice of wording.

He'd flustered your otherwise impressive resolve.

The man waves his hand at Falcone as if to dismiss him, and you expect Falcone's typical casual anger. Surprisingly, Falcone turns from him and instead makes his way without fuss towards the elevator. It occurs to you abruptly that Falcone is here to see not only your father, but Marc as well. You surmise you are going to be here for a long time, and you sink further in on yourself, sighing inwardly.

Pulling your gaze reluctantly from the elevator, you return it instead to the second man – jumping a bit when you realize he is staring straight at you.

When your eyes connect, he smiles. It's wide smile that doesn't reach his eyes, as empty as the waiting room, and a chill sets itself along the slumped arch of your spine. When he approaches, you straighten in your seat, unhooking your arms from yourself to take hold of the arm rests beside you.

"Miss Gaillard," he greets you, stopping a foot or so from you. "How nice to find a bit of color in these joyless halls."

It's his voice, you realize; it's his voice that sets you on edge. His words are careful – polite, even. There's none of a mobster's vulgarity to him, no roughness to him. His edges are soft, refined, so perfectly _controlled_. His cheekbones are high and graceful, his eyes a regal ice-blue. He holds his hand out for you to shake, ever the gentleman.

But there's something there, still, something you can't quite place. His politeness is suspect, and it's an effort to force yourself to take his hand.

His palm against your own is warm, his grip firm but oddly gentle. His fingers linger a split-second too long at the back of your wrist, tucked just under your sleeve. For one awful moment, you're frightened he's going to take hold of your sleeve; his eyes hold yours in a way that makes you uncomfortable, that makes you tense involuntarily in your chair. You're about to pull away, but he releases you before you have the chance. The relief is instantaneous, and you find yourself releasing a breathe you weren't aware you were holding.

"We have not," you point out, "Been properly introduced."

"Ah," he remarks, eyes narrowing as his lips peak at the corners again. "I suppose we haven't. I beg your pardon, Miss Gaillard; you may call me Dr. Crane. It is, of course, a pleasure."

The name rings a bell to a conversation with Marc earlier on the drive over, and you realize that your assumption was correct – he _is _the administrator.

It never ceases to amaze you just how deep this river of corruption runs. You expect it now in places you feel you shouldn't – in the police force, in the DA's office, in the politicians. Falcone runs a tight ship. That the medical profession could prove yet another risk is an avenue you have never stopped to consider, and you stare up at this man, revulsion winning out over his obvious attractiveness. Money, you think darkly, buys everything. "Of course," you answer tightly. "A _pleasure._"

His eyebrows raise, though that hint of a smile doesn't fade. You're aware, suddenly, of how quickly he has picked up on your aversion. It's a strange experience; your distaste usually goes unnoticed. You're usually more careful, of course, out of love for your brothers – out of an awkward, begrudging love for your father, even – but you don't ever have to really try. No one cares enough to notice. No one is astute enough to come close. They take your reticence as teenage drama; what use would a now-fifteen-year old girl have for the vulgarities and horror of crime life, after all?

But your loathing is certainly not lost to Dr. Crane if the subtle tilt of his head as he considers you gives any indication.

"Are you a habitual liar, Miss Gaillard?" The question is surprisingly direct, though that smirk still plays at his lips.

It agitates you how well he can pronounce your last name, how easily he manages it with the same flair as your father. It's often butchered by his associates, but Dr. Crane's tongue is quick, and his perfect articulation strikes you almost as a taunt.

"Is it fair to consider it lying when politeness is not only expected, Dr. Crane, but demanded?" You try his name on for size and hope it sounds as condescending as it does when he uses your own.

"So you admit both that you were lying and that your obligation to address me with respect is enough to keep your tongue in line?" He makes a tsking sound with his mouth, and you are suddenly very angry. "I'm disappointed."

His frankness is unsettling. He speaks to you both as one might to an adult _and _a child, and the duality of it is hard to comprehend. It has been a dream of yours to argue with one of your father's associates, but where you are normally clever you recognize that Dr. Crane is leagues ahead of typical mobster fare.

"In what?" You try, because you're struggling to decide where you want to take this conversation.

"In you," he says, as if this is the obvious answer. "Where's your backbone, Miss Gaillard?"

You find it in your growing anger. "You have no right to condescend to me."

"Why?" He asks, tone mild – almost bored. "Because I realize that polite chitchat isn't worth the effort expended? Because you are the daughter of a powerful man?"

"No," you say, coldly, fingers curled into tight fists. "Because _you_ are _terrible._"

His shoulder shake once with the illusion of a chuckle. "Terrible? I was a talented student who graduated top of my class. I am the administrator of a very important hospital."

You roll your eyes, pleased with the way his eyes narrow in response. "You misunderstand me, Dr. Crane," you say, pointedly, carefully, folding your wrists delicately over your crossed knees. "I did not say you were not accomplished. I only said that you were a _monster_."

He stares down you for a moment, and his expression is entirely unreadable. The perpetual smirk at the corners of his lips is gone now, bright eyes boring into your own. You want to look away; the indistinct nature of his sudden silence is frightening, and his gaze seems to pierce right through you.

Still, you refuse to drop your eyes from his own.

"And to what nefarious deed do I owe my thanks for that keen observation?"

His voice is considerably more careful than your own. His control is perfect. You would admire him, envy him, if your blood was not _on fire_.

You give a cursory glance around the room to verify its continued vacancy before rising to your feet in an attempt to bridge the distance between his face and your own. It's wasted effort; he's so much taller than you that you regret your decision immediately.

To his credit, he does not leer at the way your head tilts back to keep his gaze. You had expected as much, and are relieved to find otherwise. "You are a medical professional with a duty to your patients to be both honest and entirely vested in their recovery." You take a deep breath, exhaling both it and the last part of your thought at once. "I find it difficult to believe that you can be either when you are taking bribes from the mob to get murderers and con-men out of well-deserved jail time."

"Murderers and con-men that include your father and brother?" It would be a slap in the face if you weren't expecting it, but you are, and you do not even flinch.

"Both my father and brother are of stable mind and understand the gravity of the lives they have chosen. To not expect retribution – to not comprehend it's purpose – that would be true insanity. They both know the wrongness inherent in their decisions and made them regardless. It was their choice to gamble with those odds, and it is only right that they face the consequences of their actions."

"And yet your father allowed Falcone to arrange for his posh quarters in my asylum rather than accept his just rewards," Dr. Crane says delicately. You think it would be less mocking if he were screaming. "Your brother allowed your father to take his fall, when, by your call, you would have them both face jail time."

"Of course he allowed Falcone to arrange it!" You bite off each one of the words with a bitterness that surprises you. "Of course he would, because he is greedy – because how can you ever learn from your mistakes if you are never properly punished for them?"

"Do you think your father would forgo his life of crime if he were to serve a prison sentence, Miss Gaillard?"

The question stirs nausea in the pit of your stomach. You realize your eyes are burning, suddenly, stinging with indignant, desperate tears.

"I - "

"Do you think hard time would rehabilitate him when a purportedly beautiful and saintly wife could not?"

_How does he know about that?_ "How – how _dare _you - "

"Do you think that the prison system could reform him into the kind-hearted and morally upright father you have always wanted him to be where the perpetually broken heart of his lovely daughter failed to motivate him?"

You aren't thinking when you push yourself into him, when your hands connect with his chest. You aren't thinking, you aren't _thinking_, you're just so _angry_ – at your life, at your father, at this man for being so smug and so _right – _

He catches your wrists and pulls your arms out of the equation of your attempted aggression,your shoulder slamming into him clumsily and ineffectually. He stands, sturdy and straight, your body slumping against him and his stupid, perfect suit.

Your breathing is ragged and his grip on your wrists hurt. You cannot look at him, and your head falls against his chest roughly, forehead knocking against his ribs. You only hope that it hurts.

"Come now, Miss Gaillard," he says, his voice as smooth as velvet and somewhere just above the top of her head. "Violence is not the path you should pursue with this little flare of anger."

"Fuck you." You don't generally curse, and the words are jagged and foreign and inelegant on your tongue. Your cheeks are burning, your eyes are burning, and you can't stop _shaking -_ "Fuck _you. _I wasn't talking about my family, I was talking about _you._"

He releases one of your wrists and catches your chin instead, forcing you to look up at him. "What right have you to judge, Miss Gaillard, when you are afforded the life of luxury on the bankroll of thieves and murderers?"

His question stabs at an old guilty wound you are already well-acquainted with, at a guilt Marc told you your own mother suffered under. "Do you think I have a choice, Dr. Crane?" You close your eyes against the too-blue sheen of his gaze, hating yourself for the tear that trails its way down your cheek. "My mother was unable to escape. How can I hope to succeed where she failed spectacularly?"

"Have you ever actually tried?" His voice is both gentle and heavy with condescension, and you hate the dissemblance of it. You wrench both your jaw and your remaining wrist from his grip, resisting the urge to spit in his face.

"Of course I've tried!" It comes out as a strangled, furious cry, teeth barred behind the snarl of your twisting lips. "But where can I go when they can track me down – when any friend who might offer me shelter will meet with mob retribution for sheltering me?"

He regards you for a long moment with that same unreadable expression from earlier, eyes tracing the path of your single, errant tear.

"Why is it so hard?" You continue, doggedly, "To abide by even a little decency?"

"Life does not award the morally upright or the just, Miss Gaillard."

You look up at him, mouth pressed tight on any further retort.

"Power is an easy prize for those willing to bend the rules. It comes in many forms – wealth, fame, fear. Hard-work and perseverance might occasionally net you some small modicum of a reward, but there is a reason criminals are rarely rehabilitated. Why break your back, your mind, your _heart_ when you can take what you want with little to no consequence?"

"You are a medical professional - "

He cuts you off. "What does my profession have to do with moral standing or an ethical code of honor? I have an intimate knowledge of how the mind works, a deep understanding, an undeniable respect for its power. That does not excuse me from your dreaded 'corruption'. If anything, it only further reinforces the logic of my decision. Your father is an intelligent man; your brother, Marc, the same, but the fact remains that neither of them have the life skills required to make as generous a living as they do now via a more 'respectable' occupation. What even _is _a respectable occupation, Miss Gaillard? 'Respectable' is subjective; criminals do not always operate without a personal code of conduct. You cannot neatly fit everyone into perfect columns of black and white. I assure you I operate productively as a psychiatrist and as an administrator to the asylum both in spite of _and _because of the deals I have made with the dog who holds your father's leash."

You cast your eyes downward, to your feet, to his – anything but up at his face. He is having none of it, though, and he takes you by your chin again, this time with a single finger. You could pull away, but you let him tilt your head back even as you refuse to meet his gaze. You're suddenly very tired.

"Do you think that Gotham has either the ability or the desire to fund this asylum?" He asks you.

You know that it doesn't. You know because it's another dirty mess swept under the rug, tucked stubbornly out of sight. Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane is a place that garners no sympathy from any citizen. It is admittedly something you yourself have never considered before.

"Answer me."

You raise your eyes to his. "No," you say, finally. "No, it doesn't."

"You are, of course, _entirely_ correct." The way he pronounces his final 't' is so sharp you think it could cut you. He drops his hand from your chin and adjusts his collar, his gaze never quite leaving you face. "Falcone's deal and the business surrounding it provides some much needed life blood for my operation, and the morality lost in locking a few criminals in padded cells versus barred ones is a small sacrifice to pay for progress."

"Do you think less of me because I favor the moderate rewards of morality then?" The question is past your lips before you realize you are asking it. It's the question you've always wanted to ask your father – your brother. It's the question you've always been too afraid to broach.

He studies you carefully, eyes narrowing slightly. "Your tenacity," he says, eventually, "Is admirable given the nature of your life, but I am more inclined to attribute that to the naive idealism of youth than to any proper thought on the matter. You are a child, Miss Gaillard. Sharper than your peers, perhaps; willing to look beyond the life you've been raised to lead, even, which is more than I can say for the majority of the population. But you allow dreams and what ifs to dull your edge, and that is ultimately a child's folly - perhaps even a fatal one considering our unforgiving city."

"That's a lot of words to not answer my question."

You think the smile he gives you then may be the first and only genuine one he's offered you in your short acquaintance. It's gone as quickly as it comes, though, and you're left doubting it was there in the first place. "That's a lot of words to say that yes, I do think less of you. You are sacrificing an intelligent choice to prove a fruitless point. Morality, Miss Gaillard, is a restraint. It will get you nowhere."

"A clean conscience is worth whatever wealth or fame or power I'd sacrifice," you mumble. You can't quite place why his honesty stings. Why should you care what he thinks?

"Ah, but misplaced guilt takes such a heavy toll on the young." He sounds sympathetic, but you don't trust the way his mouth quirks. "Lucky for you that's something that both age and proper psychiatry can address."

"How?" There's a bitterness to your tone that succeeds only in encouraging his lips into a full-blown grin. "Will my morality falter as I become old and disillusioned? Will psychiatry pull the metaphorical wool down over my eyes and offer me a sense of ignorant bliss?"

"Don't be so dramatic," he scolds you, but there's laughter behind his words. You feel that he is laughing at you, rather than with you. "It's not anything quite so scandalous as that."

"You can't expect me to assume anything less than scandal." You stare up at him. "You're a corrupt administrator of an asylum for the criminally insane. You are scandal incarnate."

"Touche, Miss Gaillard. I will give you that." You're surprised by how easily he brushes off your accusation. "But I did mention earlier that I function quite well in the capacity of a psychiatrist, shady deals with mafioso aside."

He retrieves a wallet from the back pocket of his pants and a capped fountain pen from an inner pocket in his jacket. From his wallet he procures a single card that he flips over, jotting down something along the back. When the pen is recapped and returned to his jacket, he holds the card out to you.

"What's this?" You cannot keep the distrust from your voice, but his hand is steady, the card brushing against the backs of your fingers.

"My card," he says, as you take it from him slowly. It's heavy ivory card stock, and you stare at the front of it. 'Dr. Jonathan Crane,' it reads in a neat and no-nonsense black font. Beneath his name it clarifies him as both the administrator and a practicing psychiatrist of the asylum. It includes the asylum's address and a collection of general phone numbers along with his direct business line.

You flip the card over and find another number hand-written there in similar black ink. His hand-writing is so precise that you might have believed it was typed had you not watched him write it yourself.

"And what's _this_?" You ask again, for lack of anything else to say. The number is different from any on the front.

"My personal number," he says. You look up at him with poorly concealed incredulity, but his face is a mask again.

"But," you say, and pause, floundering. "Why?"

"Because you are a girl lost amid a sea of festering future psychoses. Daddy issues, morality issues – and that is to say nothing of your guilt complex. Guilt can take quite a toll on a young and developing mind, Miss Gaillard. Consider me concerned."

You scowl at him. "I doubt that entirely."

He chuckles. "Then let us rephrase and say instead that I'm _interested_."

You're not sure why he would be, and you're not sure you have the gall to ask why. You decide to approach the situation from another angle. "Why on earth would I seek you out with any issue voluntarily, Dr. Crane?"

You don't expect him to have such a ready answer. "Because you are a friendless girl alienated from her peers by the actions of a family she cannot relate to. Because the world you inhabit is based on ideologies you cannot condone. Because you are lost and lonely. Because your heart aches to spill to whoever will give pause long enough to listen."

The assuredness with which he recounts this borders on arrogance. It isn't that that stings, however; it's the truth behind it that does.

He is, of course, one-hundred-and-fucking-percent correct. Your teeth grind together in a pronounced and helpless sort frustration. "Fuck you," you manage, but there's no fire behind the words anymore.

"Unfortunately I don't have the time as of this moment to stay and chit-chat with you about your regrettable situation, Miss Gaillard," he says, willfully choosing to ignore your faltering wrath. "I have quite the long list of appointments to keep. That said, I tend to be free after eight." He takes your hand and shakes it, fingers curled tight around your own. You don't like how he's robbed you of your choice to decline it, don't like his confidence – don't like anything about him. "Do keep in touch, mm?"

Before you can come up with a proper smart retort, he's off across the lobby. At the door you expect him to turn and look – almost find yourself wishing he would – but he doesn't, and then he's gone and you are once again alone.

The room is empty again, yawning wide. The silence is unbearable, and you fall back in the chair, staring down at the card in your fingers.

Personal number. You frown down at the digits. What's he playing at here? Does he really expect you to call him? As if you would indulge that pompous ass any more than you already had to?

But even as you're building up this fantasy of tearing the card to a million pieces and leaving it to whatever OCD janitor keeps the lobby as barren and pristine as a long-pilfered tomb, you realize with a creeping sense of loss that you can't.

Your fingers move to the edge of the card, and you try – you try so _hard_ to will yourself to tear it. Just in half. Just a little. Just one little piece.

But your hands won't obey you. His number is there, black on white, a _lifeline_. It's been so long since you've spoken to anyone outside of James or Marc. The only friends you've managed to make are those online where you are free to be someone else than yourself, free to be someone unaffected by your father's reputation.

And all the hate you felt for Dr. Crane only moments ago is there, again, poignant and sharp in the pounding of your heart. But it's not for him anymore – it was never really there for him in the first place.

It's yourself you hate. It's yourself you hate, because you're too weak to change anything about your life, because you're too afraid, because you're so damned lonely.

Silently you slip the card into the pocket of your pants and draw your knees up to your chest, closing your eyes against the emptiness of the room.

You wonder what time it is, and then -

You wonder how far away 8 pm is.


End file.
